Be Still Your Voice in My Head (At Ibn Al Ameed)

Be Still Your Voice in My Head

At Ibn Al Ameed

I can always hear your soft complaining

scolding at the spitting raining

grumbling at the dust and fumes

humming chosen ancient tunes

Hi Ho Wolverhampton and here we go

dodging assassin traffic flow

weaving across White Palace Interchange

hailing Karwas blue and strange

gritting, hissing, piss poor comments

railing at our waste and torments. You say:

‘Don’t yow throw that away.
You can get a square meal

out of that tin of fish, with chili sauce it’s a good deal,

that is.”
And though you’ve gone and bloody died

I'm hearing your voice from the other side,

your Brummie accent nags at my head,

even though you’re fooking dead.

Looking across to Doha City

gazing from the dust and shitty

shimmering beacons, myriad colours

remembering times shared as brothers

grinding underfoot the gravel and sand

thinking what never goes as planned

arriving now at Ibn Al Ameed
hailing cabs that halt at speed

bewildering spoken Arabian snatches 

fumbling with the car door catches. You say:

‘Yow could walk and save money, too

and avoid that bloody taxi queue,

yow could.”
And though you’ve gone and bloody died

hearing your voice from the other side,

your Brummie accent nags through my head,

even though you’re fooking dead.

Sitting alone in this foreign bar,

regretting that half an hour it took by car

scratching scabs and bed bug sores

scraping clots with fingered claws

nailing just one further beer

pushing back one single tear

nodding at people half remembered

mouthing music badly rendered

spinning head and choking fag

flirting with some wizened hag. You say:

‘Doha? What are we doing here anyway?

Wolves and Charlton play today,

We could have gone, we could, yow know.’

I know. I bloody know. Don't you know? Still:

It’s true you’ve gone and bloody died

and I think I’m missing something inside,

your Brummie accent nags in my head,

even though you’re fooking dead.